I'm Not Who I Was
by SpiderMonkey241
Summary: We stumble through the days and sob through the nights, but at least I know he's safe here. With me.


My little sister, Katie, wants to pee like boys do. She's been trying to do it for years, ever since she was potty trained and discovered that Carlos and James got to pee standing up and aim at things. I'm all too willing to bet that she's tried harder than any other female in the history of the world to do it.

She used to practice in the front yard, but my mom found out and made her move to the back in order to preserve our neighbors' sanity. "A phase," she called it. "Katie'll stop soon enough."

James thinks it's hilarious.

Katie's friend Chewy used to live down the street from us. He didn't seem to find it strange at all that Katie kept asking questions about how he peed. But, at that age, I don't think he realized that she wasn't a boy, too.

Later that year, a Japanese exchange student named Toshi came to stay with Chewy's family for a while. For a while, Katie kept taping the corners of her eyes back and streaking her hair with mom's black mascara. It didn't really do anything but make her look like a deranged punk rocker, but whatever, it made her happy.

She's started peeing like a normal girl long since then, but James still teases her sometimes.

I don't blame her, though, for wanting to be somebody else.

I've always had to be the leader. It's not all that it's cracked up to be.

When I was a little kid, I never spoke unless someone asked me a question. I stayed in my room most days and played with action figures, lost in my own little world. But when my dad left us just after I turned five, it all changed. Even then, I knew that something really bad had happened, and it was up to me to take care of my mom and baby Katie.

I met James, Carlos and Logan all around the same time, but it's really Logan and I that came together first. I don't know how, he's just one of those people that you really don't remember meeting, but they've been there your whole life. Everything just fell into place once we got with James and Carlos.

In eighth grade, all of us made a habit of coming home after hockey practice to watch Oprah. It wasn't for the advice as much as it was for us making fun of the weird people who came on.

One episode in particular, though, stands out. There was this panel of five or six people who had all died for a few minutes in the hospital and then come back to life. "A near death experience" is what Oprah referred to it as. They talked about how exciting it was to know what happens when you die, but then get to come back and keep living.

Right now, with the whole Logan situation and all, I feel like I'm having a near life experience; I'm not quite dead, but not quite alive.

I see the scars early one morning. It was hot out, so Logan had slept above his sheets. The little cuts were mostly on the tops of his thighs, far up on the inside of his arm. So no one could see them.

I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

I felt like I failed. I was the leader. It was _my_ job to take care of everyone, and I didn't. How could I have missed the way Logan was feeling? How the _fuck_ could I have let him think like that? I should have been there. I should have been more persistent when I asked him if anything was wrong.

It might just be better for everyone if I go kill myself right now.

At night, in the room Logan and I share, often I think I can make out the sound of quiet, hushed sobs from his bed.

I cry with him sometimes.

Other times, I'll wake up to crying and thrashing and screaming from the other side of the room. As if everything wasn't already enough, Logan has really vivid, terrifying nightmares.

I hold him through those nights, let him sniffle into my chest as I rub his back. Soothing him with words doesn't work. I sing.

On the nights where we both can fall asleep after he's calmed down a bit, I find him still in my arms in the morning, chest rising and falling steadily.

We stumble through the days and sob through the nights, but at least I know he'll always be safe with me.

Sometimes, Logan won't eat. I have to literally hold his mouth open and shove food down his throat when it gets really bad.

Sometimes, Logan can't sleep. I cradle him against me and sing best I can to console him.

Sometimes, James and Carlos will poke their heads into our room when they hear Logan crying. I come up with some bullshit excuse to cover him then. It's easier to keep them in the dark when it comes to Logan's problems; I don't want them worried about him. If they did, then I'd have failed again***** not taking care of my boys like I have to.

That's just how it has to be.

Maybe forever.

One morning I'm sitting at the table, head supported by my hand and coffee mug warm in my opposite palm. I'm so exhausted. Logan hasn't slept well for the past few nights, and when he doesn't sleep, I don't sleep. A small part of my conscience tells me that I should probably tell someone about all this, but they would want Logan to get "professional help". But that's not what he needs. He needs me. That's all he needs. I can take care of him.

Or maybe it's my own selfishness that wants him with me. Somewhere in me, I know that I could never be complete without Logan. God, it's sounds so cliché, repeated so many times the words don't have any worth to them anymore. Plastic. But I mean it so much it hurts.

After a moment of contemplating myself again, I raise my head and stare blankly into the black liquid. How did I get to sound so…?

It's the coffee. It has to be the coffee.

Logan knows that I know about the cuts. I think he knew before, 'cause he's Logan fucking Mitchell, super genius of the world, but it's out in the open now. Before we go to bed, I make him lay out on his bed so I can search for any new cuts. Three times I have found fresh ones, and three times I have threatened to tell my mom (what kind of kindergarten intimidation is that?). I know I won't though. No one knows what he needs like I do.

Then again, I'm the one that let him get to this point, so what do I know?

Now I'm sitting here on the couch, James and Carlos sitting on the floor in front of me, Logan curled up into my side. I keep my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat steadily under my palm. Each pulse reminds me that he's alive, at least for one more second longer.

James and Carlos still don't know. Maybe we'll tell them in time, but now that Logan's doing so well, I don't think we will.

As if he knows what I'm thinking (maybe he does; when I was a kid I thought that Logan and I had the same heart and same brain since we were so close. Sometimes I still think that.), Logan turns his head to smile up at me and intertwines his fingers with mine under the blankets.

We'll be okay. I know it. Even through this whole near life experience, I can tell.

Because Logan can do anything.

**Thank you for reading. Please review.**


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